by Stephen Bly
“What kind of questions?”
“I don’t know, lots of things. He wanted to know if Chuy went to Tillamook Head with Tom Wiseman the night he disappeared. Chuy said, ‘no,’ that he had too much firewater. He had gotten into character with that Indian outfit.”
“Ma’am, that’s a horrible stereotype. Your husband’s a drunk with any kind of clothes.”
“Mr. Rebozo kept asking him over and over, but Chuy insisted he did not go.”
“If so, maybe it saved his life.”
“He told Mr. Rebozo that the Frenchman was very upset that night. He told Chuy how useless he was, that he might be cut off from the rest of the deal.”
“What deal?”
“Chuy doesn’t exactly remember what they discussed at that meeting or much of anything afterward. So, when he sobered up he figured he better find out what deals had been made. He went to look for the Frenchman and couldn’t find him. When he heard that Tom Wiseman was missing, he suspected the Frenchman was responsible.”
“That’s it? That’s all he knows?”
“My Chuy is a loyal kind of guy, in his own way.” She paced the deck. “Then Mr. Rebozo showed Chuy a compass. He wanted to know who it belonged to. Chuy said, ‘The Frenchman,’ but Mr. Rebozo did not believe him. He beat on him some more. Then Chuy said, ‘It belongs to Wax Lanigan,’ and Mr. Rebozo still did not believe him. ‘How do you know Wax Lanigan?’ ‘He brought the engineers to the meeting,’ Chuy answered.”
Mrs. Carbón sighed. “I don’t think Chuy had ever seen the compass before. He was trying to protect himself. After Mr. Rebozo left, Chuy said he was going to talk to someone who could help him. I told him not to go alone, that I would go with him. He slapped me and shoved me against the wall, then ran out.”
Brannon closed his eyes and stretched back his neck. I cannot abide any man who will hit a woman. Why do that? “I’m sorry but I can’t go looking for your husband right now. Go home. Lock the door. Don’t let that man back in while he’s violent.”
Nina Carbón wrapped her arms around her chest. Her eyes pleaded with him to understand. “He’s all I have,” she said. “Both the good and the bad.”
Brannon studied the agitated face and pondered the plight of lonely people who make such choices. “I’ll ask around about your husband.” He turned to leave.
Meanwhile, his suspicions of Rebozo grew. Was he trying to force that boozed up Nicaraguan to confess to something that would cover up his own involvement?
He was about to return to Lady Fletcher’s party, when he heard a woman shriek. Her screams reached a crescendo as he ran towards the sound that seemed to come from the Neacoxie Creek.
He saw Nina Carbón peering down into the dark waters. He ran to her side. A body floated next to a rusted out bicycle, the spokes bent. Brannon scooted down the ledge and got close enough to identify the bloated face of Chuy Carbón.
Mrs. Carbón ranted, “Chuy, Chuy,” as tears rolled down her face.
With some effort, he and Mrs. Carbón pulled him out and Brannon looked all over for gunshot or knife wounds.
He either fell in or was pushed. Where is Rebozo? He’s got his own answers to give.
Thirty-four
Rebozo followed Lanigan down the grande promenade and over to his Thomas motorcar. Before he got in, Rebozo called out, “Lanigan, hope there’s no hard feelings about last night.”
“Nah, new night, new game. Going over there now myself.”
“Can I catch a ride?”
“Hop in.”
Rebozo thought he heard a woman’s scream, but he scooted into the Thomas. As they chugged along, Lanigan chattered. “I like it here. It feels good to work with the orphans and there are great folks in this town. It’s close enough to Portland that I can hop on the train for a meeting to see my friends from the Exposition, even long after they close the gates and tear it down after October. Think I’ll stay in Gearhart, at least for now. Maybe move to Portland in the spring.”
Rebozo blew out a puff from his Murad cigarette. “Hey, don’t want to put a damper on that, but thought I’d let you know what I’ve discovered. In helping Brannon in the search for Tom Wiseman, I’ve happened onto some curious information, some of which affects the orphan farm.”
The steady roar of the engine provided the only response. Lanigan clutched the steering wheel tight. “What do you mean?”
“After some intense encouragement, a Nicaraguan by the name of Chuy Carbón said the compass I had in the pot last night belonged to a Frenchman, Bois DeVache. I think he’s lying. It’s an English compass.” Rebozo pulled it out from his suit pocket.
Lanigan reached out for it, turned it over, and gave it back. “Yes, I noticed it at the poker game, of course. Many folks would use an English compass. Even I, if I had a reason.”
“Perhaps. We set it up so that if anyone in the room claimed to own the compass, we’d know whom to question about Tom Wiseman.”
“Why is that?” Lanigan stared straight ahead, arms and neck stiff.
“We found it on Tillamook Head… near where an old Indian found Tom Wiseman’s body and buried him.”
The motorcar slowed. Lanigan leaned against the driver’s side door, as though panting, short of breath. “Do you know for sure it’s Marshal Wiseman’s body?”
Rebozo sucked again on the cigarette. “Ninety-nine percent certain. We found Bois DeVache’s body with his. The Frenchman had been trying to entice investors for a gold mine in Panama. Something doesn’t ring right about that guy. Part of the puzzle.”
Lanigan heaved a kind of sigh. “Maybe he and Wiseman had a shootout.”
“There’s something else,” Rebozo continued. “Someone’s been threatening some of the orphans and there may be some funds missing. As chairman of the board, I thought you should know.”
The motorcar slunk along, even slower. “Of course I should. Are you sure about that?”
“Those two pretty gals on Sam Smythe’s staff gave me some clues. However, I don’t know who to finger. Do you know anyone who might be involved? Could be Sam Smythe… or his wife… or any of the staff or board members. Or perhaps a donor. That happens sometimes in a twisted kind of way.”
“Can’t imagine anyone involved with the Willamette Orphan Farm doing harm to the children.”
“I think Tom Wiseman knew about it too. There could be a connection to his death.”
“What does Stuart Brannon think about it?”
“We haven’t discussed it yet. It’s a growing hunch of mine. I thought I’d run it by you first since you’re involved with the orphan farm. Does any of this make sense?”
Lanigan sat very still. His eyes brightened. “Yes, it does. In fact, it’s becoming clearer.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“I’m the connection.” He yanked out a Smith and Wesson revolver and shot Rebozo in the chest.
Rebozo’s eyes glazed. His face tightened. Blood spurted through his white shirt. “You! Brannon… right… again,” Rebozo wheezed and slumped forward.
“Brannon right?” Lanigan shrieked. “Brannon’s right about what? Rebozo, tell me, what has Brannon told you?” He pounded Rebozo on the back. Rebozo doubled up and collapsed against the dashboard and crumpled onto the floor.
Lanigan braked the Thomas car to a halt. He looked with care all around the dark residential street for a sign of anyone in view. He sprinted around to the passenger side and dragged Rebozo out, careful not to get any blood on him. He dumped Rebozo beside the road and sped away.
Thirty-five
Lady Fletcher made a clip, clop sound with her shoes down the long hotel hall from the lobby, her face ashen. “Brannon, Deputy Kliever is here. He has shocking news, says they found another dead man. This time it’s Tally Rebozo. Shot in the chest and abandoned by the side of the road, right in the middle of town. He wants to talk to Sylvia Wiseman. To you, too.”
Brannon felt a rush of cold, then hot. He tried to assimilate the news. “But th
at must mean that Rebozo is not the third man.” He swallowed and let his scrambled thoughts settle. “When did it happen?”
“Sometime in the last couple hours.”
“But Sylvia’s been here during that period and so have I.”
“Tell it to the deputy.” She folded her arms. “And inform him there were others who had cause.” She licked her lips. “Including myself.”
“I’m willing to bet there’s a long line of women that stretches from here to South America.”
Brannon headed to the lobby and found Deputy Kliever pacing back and forth. Sylvia was seated in a chair as he interrogated her. He turned to Brannon. “We’ve got three men dead under very suspicious circumstances since you arrived.”
“Three?”
“The body that washed up on the shore too.”
“You’re blaming me for that? What about Marshal Wiseman and Bois DeVache? That makes five. But I have an alibi for them. I was in Arizona.”
The deputy sported a white cowboy hat and spurs so large they scraped the linoleum. “I’ll have to take you both to Astoria if you don’t give me better answers,” he threatened.
“You can’t do that,” Sylvia protested. “We want to find this killer as much as you do… maybe more.”
“It might be linked with Tom Wiseman, Bois DeVache and Chuy Carbón,” Brannon said.
“Impossible,” the deputy stated. “There’s no attachment. Each situation is totally different… accidental deaths and a cold-blooded killing… and you both had a motive in the latter… at least, you threatened Rebozo more than once, with witnesses.” His gaze was riveted on Sylvia, but she glared right back.
“At least we can rule out Wax Lanigan. He’s a coward. He certainly wouldn’t shoot a man, especially pointblank,” Brannon said.
“He might hire it done,” Sylvia suggested.
“I agree with the deputy to a point.” He offered Kliever a brief nod. “It could be a series of isolated, random events or…” He halted to fully assess the train of ideas forming in his mind. “Or it could be one perpetrator whose acts have gotten out of control.”
“Doesn’t absolve either of you,” the deputy said. “I’m taking you both in. Anytime Stuart Brannon’s around, you can be sure people will wind up dead.”
“I can’t let you do that.” Brannon felt for his Colt revolver and plotted a plan of escape that would include Sylvia.
“I’m the law talking. Are you a lawbreaker, Stuart Brannon?”
“No, but if truth is to be discovered, if justice is to be done, I must be free to roam. If you take us in, none of us can follow through on this case while it’s fresh.”
The deputy rubbed his rowels back and forth. “I’ve got someone I need to talk to. Until then, I’m locking you both up.”
“Where?”
“In a hotel room.”
“You better make that two hotel rooms,” Sylvia said. “I’m not going to have my reputation shattered for the sake of an over-zealous, inexperienced deputy.”
Deputy Kliever blushed bloodred. His eyes fired so hot Brannon worried he might explode on the spot. Brannon prepared for defense. None was needed.
An amazing transformation took place. They watched the deputy physically cool down. His body relaxed. His natural color returned. He slipped off his hat and rubbed the inner lining. “You each pay me one hundred cash dollars and I’ll call that bail for your release.”
“That’s highway…” Sylvia spurted out.
“I’ll pay it,” Brannon replied. “For both of us, if necessary.”
Sylvia reached into her purse. “You most certainly will not. I can take care of my own fees.”
After the deputy left, Sylvia commented, “That was as close to paying a bribe as I’ve ever come.”
“He’s got a streak of greed in his gut. Hope he turns around and goes the other way while he can.”
An elderly man with a bald head shuffled through the door, a paper flapping in his hand.
“I’m from the telegraph office,” he said. “Anyone here know where Stuart Brannon is?”
A telegram almost always brought anticipation. Either a good report or bad news. The information Brannon received set a mood of contemplation. He and Sylvia moseyed across to where Lord and Lady Fletcher waited for a report about the deputy’s visit. “Well, it’s official.”
“What do you mean ‘official’?” snorted Edwin.
“Looks like Tally Rebozo was a foreign spy. A double spy, in fact. Harriet made a lucky guess. But it wasn’t Serbia. He helped set the stage for the bloodless coup against Colombia in Panama.”
“If he’s such an important and smart spy, how come he was fooled so badly he got shot?” Edwin chimed in. “For that matter, I cannot understand how your friend Tom Wiseman got trapped. They were both experienced professionals.”
“I can’t answer that. For some reason, they let their guard down,” Brannon replied. “That’s why we’ve got to stay alert. Suspect everyone until he or she has proven innocence or fostered guilt.”
“She?” Lady Fletcher retorted. “Surely you don’t think that a woman…?”
“At this point, we don’t know anything for sure… except that Rebozo discovered something that we haven’t yet.”
“Or don’t realize you know,” Fletcher said. “Have you listed all the facts of the case?”
“Ah, Edwin. I sense you getting involved,” Brannon said.
“You don’t sense anything of the kind,” Fletcher responded. “I’m helping you be practical.”
“Edwin, you were born for adventure. When we first met, you drug into Everett Davis’ cabin at Broken Arrow Crossing, half-frozen and looking for gold at the Little Yellowjacket. Before that, you told me you’d been in northern India trying to keep the Mongols and Hindus from killing each other.”
“Yes, quite right.” His eyes misted over in a faraway gaze. “For decency, mankind, King and country.”
“And what have you been doing the last ten years?”
“I sit around English gardens sipping tea and managing world affairs. Dreadfully boring. How about you, Brannon?”
“I’ve been ranching and trying to be a father and grandpa.”
“You miss the old times?”
“Not the backbreaking, unrelenting toil of keeping bad guys under control. But I do sometimes yearn for that sense that we lived in a momentous, history-making period.”
Lady Fletcher sighed. “Stuart, I feel a lot of remorse over this. I’m serious. You came to town to help the President and Tom Wiseman. I came to town because I didn’t have anything else to do this week. It wasn’t worth anyone losing their lives. I’ve been playing a game. No more of that. What can I do to help you?”
“Not sure yet, but I’ve been contemplating another scheme. Edwin, at the tournament tomorrow, can you offer some sort of posthumous award citation for Tally Rebozo? Can we give such a gaudy, patriotic display by your country and ours that the person or persons responsible who did him in might chafe at the bit and per- haps reveal themselves in some way? Most criminals possess immense egos.”
“Bad form, Brannon. I can’t go around inventing awards for British royalty to declare. You think they grow on trees like Portland apples?”
“You’re right. Forget the whole deal.”
Fletcher flinched when a sharp, pointed shoe cranked into his ankle. “Well, I suppose it could be some sort of minor award. But then it has to be important enough to make the setup seem believable. Perhaps we can call him a Commodore or Captain, something like that.”
“How about we make him a double captain?” Brannon suggested.
“Double captain? Here’s a different tactic.” Lord Fletcher was on board now. “Make it sound fishy to everyone. He’s going to be a double captain of the Frazier River Exploratory Brigade, awarded for his courage and sacrifice against the Metis Rebellion.”
“I’ve got lots of jewelry,” Lady Fletcher chimed in. “I’ll make up a medal hanging from a ri
bbon of some sort.”
Brannon scratched his chin. “It’s worth a try, until we think of something else. In the mean-time, Harriet, you have parties to give and I have exploring to do.”
Wax Lanigan leered up into the face of a full moon that glowed in the expanse of starry sky as he staggered over the sand dunes.
The natives will be restless tonight.
After another all-night poker game, the intoxicated Lanigan pulled out a packet of Murad cigarettes, picked out three and stuffed them in his mouth. He lit them one by one, then coughed and gagged until he choked himself into a spasm. He tossed the cigarettes into the tall beach grass.
I forgot. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink either.
He stumbled down the beach and passed out on a wooden walkway.
And I don’t murder people.
Thirty-six
Saturday, June 17
Brannon woke in the dark before dawn to what sounded like a firestorm and viewed a mini-inferno. He jumped up and stared at rings of flames lapping at the southern hilly landscape.
A fire? On the sand?
Tres Vientos panicked. He yanked at the bush where he’d been tied until it pulled out from the roots, then ran in wild circles before he dashed down the beach towards Gearhart with the bush trailing.
Brannon jerked out his blanket from the bedroll. He ran until he reached the closest rim. He slapped quick hits against the burning grass. It smoldered and went out. But I can’t stop all of this. It’s more than an acre already.
He heard sharp clangs like hammers up and down the railroad track and a bell. Within minutes, silhouettes of people with searchlights and flashlights rushed to the scene. A fire hose cart appeared, but also a brigade with buckets soon followed and surrounded the fire. Brannon tossed away his blanket and helped throw buckets of water. The organized crew ran back and forth to West Seaside. They stopped the advance of the fire and soon a huge black patch fumed with smoke.
“Thanks for your help, mister,” one of the Seaside volunteer firemen said. “Any idea how the fire started?”
